


it started with a nosebleed? yup, a fucking nosebleed

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Character Development, M/M, hes also in love with ralph, its ok jack is being whiny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jack is kindof in love with pretty boy Ralph and he falls out with his friends.
Relationships: Jack Merridew/Ralph
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	it started with a nosebleed? yup, a fucking nosebleed

Does blood stain lino? It wasn’t like it mattered – it was just a thought that sprung into Jack’s mind as he watched his blood begin to create a pool between his muddy trainers. As he sat in a considerably uncomfortable chair with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands, a splitting headache made it impossible to sit upright. (No, he hasn’t been stabbed and he isn’t bleeding out from a fatal wound – he just has a broken nose). His spit was dribbling down through his open mouth (with the trickling blood from his nose) and as it began to mix with his drying blood he had the sudden realisation that it would be Hell on earth for him if his father saw him like this: with a busted lip, bruises on his arms and back, a massive scabbing wound that he got from getting his face rubbed into the tarmac of an unsuspecting pavement and the most wretched looking black eye.  
A shiver shot up his back as he thought he felt something creeping down his neck and the thought of a spider being on his back paired with the rush of adrenaline forced him to jolt his body to stand up locking his knees into place – the rapid speed that he did this unfortunately meant that he lost the strength in his knees and the vision in his eyes. But, there was no bug, it was blood. Blood from a nasty head wound that had been gifted to him only an hour before. His head meeting the cold chequered floor made another sticky splat of blood, and spit, which slowly oozed to get bigger with every second he lay there mimicking the dead.

“Are you okay down there, son?” a warm and deep voice floated down to him and edged him out of his daze,  
“oh, yeah,” Jack grunted out as he did his very best to make it back to his chair using it as support along the way,  
“well no I’m not really but yeah I’m fine enough”  
“well good because you’re going to need to go home right about now” the man said. This man was a police officer, a police officer that arrested Jack for getting into a fight with his mate. A police officer that was surprisingly nice. A police officer that had decided to let Jack off on a warning because it looked like jack had ‘gotten the worst half of the fight’. _What in the hell did that mean?_ Jack had put in his best effort; _did his bruises really look that bad?  
_Although this interaction was plagued with legal discrepancies – letting jack off when he should be charged for something like assault or disorderly conduct – Jack didn’t dare question it. Jack would walk out of this police precinct without an ASBO, without a criminal record and without his bike. _Where is my bike? Where the fuck is my bike? He had knocked his bike into some bushes in the chaos of the fight, and when he was arrested it wasn’t like he could take his bike with him. My dad really will kill me if I turn up looking like this and without my bike._

Pain shocked through his jaw and into his neck as he seethed in the cold air through his sensitive teeth. The town looked so different when it is lit up by streetlights instead of sunlight. With his hands in his pockets Jack made his way to the field next to the park: where his bike had been abandoned. The church was lit up inside and the stained glass windows depicting Jesus, Mary and Angel Gabriel were clear and contrasting with the old sandstone bricks that made up the walls.  
Jack hated Sundays purely because of church; he had never looked forward to it once, all of the lies and ridiculous standards that are spewed by the pastor made Jack’s mind decay.

Eventually Jack had reached the spot where he last remembered having his bike. Jack was walking along the edge of the field that was lined with bushes and the occasional thorny bramble bush. Then he saw it, the purple frame of his bike and half the wheel sticking out from the green. As it was so dark, Jack failed to notice that this particular spot was laced with brambles and as he reached in - to retrieve his bike - his arm got caught and a thorn that snagged his skin had ripped through to make a long cut going down the back of his forearm. Jack felt the pain dropped his bike and moved his arm to an angle where a nearby streetlight would highlight it. Blood was pumping steadily out of the rough skin the thorn had made. He pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over his crumpled fist and began to nurse his latest wound that was to be added to his now growing collection. The blood soaked through and he could feel the fabric stick to the callous on the base of his hand, the blood had slowed slightly as Jack became hyper-aware of the time. He didn’t know exactly – the time that is – but he knew it was late, judging by the abyss that was the sky. Quickly, he grabbed his bike (being careful of the malicious thorns this time) and began to ride home. The streets were empty and everything was quiet. Have you ever experienced that? – the silence that seemingly engulfs you as you’re riding in the middle of a road with the cold wind rushing, swirling and consuming the space around your ears – it is surreal.

Jack lived at number 45 on his street. Number 45 didn’t have any lights on: that’s a good sign. He made his way down the side of his home doing his best to make the gate not creek too loudly and made sure not to knock any of the many objects crammed into the sideway next to his house – paint cans, ladders, boxes, buckets – and pulled out his house key from his pocket and made his way to collapse on his bed.

Morning showers are a lot different when the water runs maroon around your feet, when the dry blood mixes with the hot water. However it had been a while since Jack had gotten into a fight with his mate; they had made up since the last time (that was a year ago). There had always been remaining tension between them, though, and it just seemed to snap last night in the park. Jack now walked to college by himself and the group was no longer. It now was possessed by Maurice. Maurice - the boy he fought with - the boy who knew about Jack’s anger issues and the boy who had set him off with that one little comment in the park.

Jack had chosen his college based on location, just so he could walk. He also chose his a-levels on what his dad wanted for him. Jack wasn’t particularly academic – he mainly relied on charm and music to get him through life. Maths, Biology and law – that’s what his father suggested. It was Thursday and every Thursday Jack had maths from nine ‘till eleven in the morning.

Once he had got there and walked in to the already full classroom he sat down, did his usual glance to his left and got out some paper. He always glanced at the boy next to him out of habit; a habit that had sprouted from a need for approval – which he lacked from his father. The boy next to him was handsome, smart and athletic. He was headstrong and kind, all of the things that Jack secretly wanted to be. Ergo, he always checked to see if the boy was paying any attention to him.

Another habitual thing he did, after maths, was go to the park to meet up with his friends again. Seeing as that wasn’t an option he headed home. The only problem is: he had to walk past the park to get there quick enough. Jack already knew that they’d be there. They’d be ready to start on him again, ready to worsen his injuries. It wasn’t like he wanted to stay at college; he hated that place, like any normal teenager would. Jack was a risk-taker anyway.

There was a familiar crunch of gravel under Jack’s feet when he neared the park. Jack was right, there they were. Maurice and Roger were sitting on the swings smoking while the other three boys – that never really mattered anyway – stood around them. All of them exchanging words and making each other laugh and smirk.

Jack’s pulse eased higher and higher the closer he got to the fence. His head was quite literally pulsating at the sight of Maurice. Should I say something? Yes, right? No that would only make things worse; it’d be five against one. He frantically battled the thought of approaching the group. I’m going to do it. No, I’m not. Yes I am. The thought of submitting to Maurice and letting him win ate at Jack so violently from the inside out.

He was going to do it.

His nails were making marks on his palms within the clenched fist he had made, as he approached the gaggle of boys. Maurice flicked his cigarette on the floor and stood when he saw Jack.

“You’re a fucking prat you know that, ‘rice.” He lead,

“oh yeah, sure I might be but at least I’m not gay” Maurice retaliated, that struck a chord in Jack’s mind.

“Twat” Jack said as he scaled the fence and landed a punch in Maurice’s mouth. Red spit landed on the floor by them (obviously from Maurice’s mouth).

A brawl ensued after that, it really was five against one and it definitely ended badly. For Jack at least. Jack lay there completely pummelled, completely humiliated. The five boys strolled away like they didn’t just assault a boy.

“I’m not even gay” Jack whimpered.


End file.
